The Ourorboros

The day after the Halloween party, the middle and senior years were scheduled to visit Hogsmeade, and the juniors, once more scandalised by arrant injustice, were appeased with free time and Quidditch practice. The weather was embittered with a scotch mist, and as the senior's permission slips were sorted by Filch and Snape, the students rugged up warmly in their winter cloaks, hoods drawn over damp, flattened hair, their noses pinched with cold as they trudged off in small but noisy groups in the direction of the Broomsticks and Honeydukes.

McGonagall, Flitwick and Longbottom were on Hogsmeade duty and Snape had been granted a morning of leave. He planned to see the Wicce, and had already sent the old sorceress a Patronus explaining his need for her Pensieve, so not long after the coast was clear, he had locked up his rooms and made a low key exit to the Winged Boar gates to Disapparate. This journey to the infirmary was alone; he had not sought Diaphne's company or her opinion: to him, in his estimation, that had sunk quite low. Though she was performing highly in her seventh year studies so far, her association with Longbottom had tarnished his perception.

When he arrived, he was welcomed at the Infirmary entrance by a friendly young nurse who took his cloak and asked him to follow her – the Wicce was, apparently, suffering from gout and disinclined to walk much at present. He was shown up to the Wicce's consultation room, and when he went through he saw firstly the great, green-marble Pensive in the middle of the floor, and then the Wicce herself, at her desk, chin in hand, her feet in a bucket of forest-floor-smelling liquid and looking decidedly pissed off.

"Wicce…?" he said doubtfully. "Perhaps I've come at a bad time?"

She waved him in and then pointed to the vessel before him. "No, not a bad time for you Professor – as you can see I have arranged the Pensieve as requested. I am inconvenienced, but not by you."

He studied the bucket containing her feet. "That is for gout? The nurse mentioned -,"

"Yes. Correct."

"That…will help?"

Her lips thinned and she furrowed her brows. "Are you questioning me, youngster? I am over one hundred and twenty years in age - it's this or I give up whisky. You have a better idea perhaps?"

"No Wicce, my apologies. But I am sorry you are feeling pain."

"Everything aches these days, Professor," she remarked wearily. "I cure one, two more take its place. I am afraid entropy has begun its ever-diminishing toll on my physical self."

"Degeneration starts at birth."

"Indeed. Just much slower." She looked up at him, an invitation to explain his presence.

Snape considered her a moment, and then said without preamble or hesitation, in fact, something close to relief: "Wicce, I am being haunted."

There was no surprise or even significant interest in return. "Ah. For your sins. The lady?"

He nodded. "Her death was violent, she suffered. I didn't save her. She's seeking my help."

"Does she know she's dead?"

"Not at first. I have told her."

The Wicce nodded slowly, breathed deeply through her nostrils then said quietly, "Tell me the manner and circumstances of her death."

Snape did as asked. And when he trailed to a finish, she said, "So if you had rashly attempted to save her, you both would have died."

"Perhaps I should have done so anyway."

"And leave the child orphaned?"

"Is he better to have had two dead but valiant parents, or contend with the knowledge that the living let the other die?"

She raised her brows and appeared to weigh up the odds in a philosophical fashion. "That depends on the child. If he can forgive you. If she can forgive you. Why would she forgive you?"

"I wouldn't want her to die for my sake."

"Did she not?" The Wicce paddled her feet in a contemplative fashion.

Snape frowned. "Wicce?"

"She allowed herself to die so that you could maintain your cover," explained the Wicce in grave tones. "Do you not see this? She could have revealed everything to Mister Riddle, if not to save herself, to take you with her. But she didn't. She sacrificed herself, Professor, so that you continued to live. Probably out of love. Probably she was thinking about your son."

Snape was unable to speak. He stared at the Wicce in a cold sweat of realisation. But she smiled, slightly wolfish owing to the condition of her teeth. "Professor, I sense you have tortured yourself. Nobody enters situations like that with a predetermined outcome – you both made decisions as best you could at the time. I take it you didn't foresee she about to become a casualty?"

"No, Wicce, I didn't," he answered, but he was reluctant, now, to be in any way exonerated, hardly even knowing the truth of the matter himself.

"Then help her," she said simply. "What does she seek?"

"She wanted to know where her body was…where she is buried. But it's lost…long gone. And then she has given me a memory of hers."

The Wicce's interest was sparked at this. "Ah. At last we get to the Pensieve. I assume you are wanting to view this memory?"

"Yes. I…hoped you would be in attendance. It contains a prophecy, and they aren't my forte."

The Wicce sighed heavily and stared at her feet in the bucket. "The woman you loved, and then erased from your memory, died in your presence, now haunts you and she's given you a memory and a prophecy. Merlin's beard, Professor Snape, what a complicated life you lead."

Snape's shoulders slumped. "It's always been a bit like that, Wicce."

"So it would seem. I have lived a long time, Professor, and seen all manner of things under the sun and the moon but you…You do appear to occasion very unlikely situations."

He didn't know what to say. He had returned to Hogwarts hoping for a quiet life in obscurity.

"And now you have a son. Don't you think a period of stability would be good for him?"

"Wicce, I didn't seek -,"

"Of course not, Professor," she muttered, and huffed out of her chair, removing one dripping foot from the bucket and gingerly placing it down on some rags that lay beside it. "Alright, I will accompany you. I trust my insignificant part in things will ultimately send your wee boat into calmer waters. How is Diaphne?"

"Busy," he replied shortly.

"Ha ha, not with you, I take it."

"Not with me, no."

She chortled as she dried her feet. "Her study?"

"Good. Very good."

"She's a bright girl. But stupid with it, if you get my drift. To the Pensieve, lad."

They stood side by side at the lip of the stone vessel, and Snape closed his eyes as he put his wand-tip to his temple to siphon out the vision he held there.

The memory was dropped like a vapour of quicksilver into the swirling mists of the Pensieve, watched solemnly by Snape and the Wicce. A glow came up from the vessel's depths, they could almost see the shadows of events from the memory moving about within. "That is a good sign," observed the Wicce, as if taste-testing a dish. "And in we go."

They tipped forwards into the Pensieve and before long the scene materialised around them. They were at the Staff Party in nineteen ninety-three, and once again Snape saw his colleagues dancing and enjoying themselves, repeating the same movements as his own memory, saying the same things. But before him was Charity, seated at the little round table by herself, looking flushed and happy, glancing about – probably looking for him.

"Here we are," commented the Wicce, advancing towards Charity in order to examine her. "We meet at last. Papus be praised, young lady, you've caused a bit of trouble." Baldly looking her up and down, she added: "I can see why, Professor, you wanted the memories back."

At that moment in the memory, Trelawney arrived, florid and showing far too much white of the eyes. Trelawney all but walked through the Wicce to take her place at the table next to Charity, and as the Wicce stepped to one side her expression became disdainful. "And who is this? Please don't tell me she is a seer?"

"Indeed. She is Professor Trelawney, Teacher of Divination," said Snape drily.

"I expect her credibility suffers a great deal thanks to that ridiculous get-up."

"She does, nevertheless, produce accurate prophecies."

They watched in silence for a few moments and the Wicce muttered, "No…she is never reading her palm? Merlin's holey socks, is this going to take long Professor?"

Then the candle on the table blinked out, the lights in the room appeared to dim and Charity's memory of the scene was that all went dark and quiet around her. Snape and the Wicce became focussed on the exchange between the two women. Trelawney was still holding Charity's hand but her eyes had become fixed and myopic. She said in a monotone: "You will die young…young and quickly. Snakes. There are snakes. Snakes that love you and snakes that loathe you, that bring destruction. Snakes bring your end but also your life. They bring terrible misery but also immense joy. They are hatred and love, the snake that eats its tail, it must bring about an end but you will bring about a beginning. The one who could save you will desert you. You will fall afoul a great snake for speaking a truth. Always speak the truth. And your love will find a way."

"When am I going to die?" Charity asked Trelawney, looking shocked and afraid and a bit sick. But Trelawney had come out of her trance and responded dismissively, and then the memory closed to blackness.

Snape and the Wicce returned to the consultation room, where the Wicce immediately went to her desk and gathered up a quill and parchment even before sitting down. As she scribbled down the words of the prophecy, Snape stood silently, recounting them in his own head in case she needed prompting. When she'd finished the Wicce sat heavily, raising her bare feet, then read out her notes to Snape. "Is that what you remember?"

"Yes. Almost exactly."

The Wicce pulled open a drawer and withdrew a phial, which she handed to him. "Take the memory out of the Pensieve and put it in there for safekeeping. The Ministry may have a record in the Hall of Prophecies, but the way your Death Eater friends carried on in there I wouldn't risk it, and Charity is no longer here to remove it anyway. No, best to rely on this memory, Miss wanted you to have it. But why?"

"Can you translate the prophecy Wicce?" asked Snape, using his wand to uplift the memory out of the Pensieve then feeding it into the phial. "Many of the references to snakes are to my mind fairly obvious – clearly she means the Dark Lord, Nagini…me."

"The one who could save you will desert you?"

"I assume so."

"By deserting she may not mean at the moment of death, but earlier. By removing your memories of her - in effect, your love for her, that which might have been your motive for saving her. Or at least trying to."

"My purpose for removing the memories was to save her!"

"Does she know that?" murmured the Wicce, but she was poring over her notes. "Snakes bring your end but also your life…what does that mean? Were snakes somehow at the beginning for her?"

"That's Servius," said Snape, sinking into the leather seat on the other side of the desk. "A prophesy of her future child with me."

The Wicce considered him and said, "Perhaps."

"'The snake that eats its tail,'" she read, turning back to her notes. "…you will bring about a beginning..."

"'It must bring about an end,'" added Snape. "The snake that eats its tail – there is a name for that symbol…"

The Wicce squinted at him thoughtfully, then without a word, rose, and from the bookcase behind her, located a heavy, leather-bound volume which she pulled from the shelf and brought down before her onto the desk. It was about six inches wide and when she opened the heavy cover, the dragon-hide creaked, and dust speckled the air. She began turning thick sections over of the fine, illustrated, hand-written pages, searching. And then something caused her to stop and put a finger to the page. "Ouroboros. Greek. Oura means tail, bora means food, from bibrōskō meaning "I eat". The serpent that eats its own tail."

She'd found the section she was looking for and turned the book for Snape to see. There was an inked image of a scaly serpent wound into a sideways figure eight, its tail deep within its own mouth.

"I've seen them," murmured Snape, scanning the text quickly. "In Europe. Strong associations with dark magic -,"

"In Alchemy," agreed the Wicce.

"A symbol for eternity -,"

"The everlasting rhythms of life," she said. "The cycle of life and death."

Snape kept reading, then he said, "It says here there were connections with the Stone Triad, in particular the Philosopher's Stone and the Resurrection Stone. I still don't understand why it would be in her prophecy."

"The Ouroboros will bring about her end. Perhaps it is the source of the peace she needs."

"Where would there be one, one of these Ouroboros?"

The Wicce sat back and spent a moment rubbing her forehead, then said in low, shrewd tones, "Well I happen to know that your Albus Dumbledore had the Philosophers Stone, and I believe he had the Resurrection Stone -,"

Snape looked at her sharply. "What did you say?"

"I don't know if he had the Origin Stone, but two out the Triad – he would have been a fool not to have an Ouroboros handy don't you think?"

"You heard he had the Resurrection Stone?"

"It exists, Professor, all the Deathly Hallows do. I had the Elder Wand here for a while," she said matter-of-factly.

"What? How?"

"Things come and go…" She arose again and pulled another, similarly-bound book down from her shelf. Once placed on her desk before her, she retrieved her Mandrake-root wand from inside her robes and waved it above the cover. Under her breath she mumbled an incantation – Snape listened closely and heard snatches of Latin, some phrases he recognised, such as "all seeing-all knowing" but most was unintelligible. When she was quiet, the book opened and the pages within started to flip over, faster and faster until they were just a blur. A warm, golden light began to glow from the pages, and when the book selected its place, and the pages lay flat, the golden light remained above it like a dome. Inside the glow, Snape watched in amazement as letter-like inscriptions lifted from the page and swirled about within the sphere as if a snow-storm of black specks, and then with a flick of the Wicce's wand, they fell back to the page and settled into sentences of Latin script, with medieval-style flourishes.

"There," announced the Wicce after reading. "The stone was fashioned into a ring by Marvolo Gaunt…and, indeed, I thought I'd read it somewhere…last owned by Harry Potter."

Snape stared at the book, the writing, and then back at the Wicce again. "That's the cursed ring -,"

"That would have claimed Albus Dumbledore. Yes, I know. He was not above foolishness."

"I tried to stop the curse…"

"A potion won't stop that, Professor," chuckled the Wicce, squinting her eyes to read the text. "It would seem he gave the Stone to Harry Potter. Presumably to help defeat the wizard Riddle and all that."

Snape sat back hard in his chair, eyes wide and inward as he connected dots in his head. "That's how he lived. My message to him was that he had to die, only one could live…the Resurrection Stone brought him back?"

The Wicce shrugged and shook her head. "I don't know all the ins and outs of Harry Potter's adventures, but it wouldn't have been the Resurrection Stone that brought him back. You can't use it to bring yourself back from the dead; that has never been possible and rightly so. It brings back your loved ones, in a manner, briefly. For some reason Albus thought Master Potter would need to consult his dearly departed."

Snape was shaking his head, dazed. "Where is it now? The Stone? Did Potter keep it?"

The Wicce looked closely at the text. "It says 'returned'. No, Master Potter did not keep it."

"Where? Where is it returned to?"

"It doesn't say, Professor, otherwise I would have told you," she answered a little irritably. "Probably a protected location. It says it mustn't be removed or disaster befalls the region and those who dare to desecrate."

Snape sat forward again and looked hard at her big, leather-bound book. "What is that? How does it work?"

She laughed throatily. "Magic of course. Anything not easily explained or accounted for, and in large part frustrating to use is, most often, the work of magic."

"Yes, I assumed that but…how…did you know Dumbledore?"

"Oh yes. Long, long ago. He keeps popping up in this book so I've been following him. And Tom Riddle. That was one disturbed individual. Grindewald. Nicky Flamel. Mother Malkin – she needed help. Tamsin Blight. Goodness, Merlin, I've lived a long time."

Snape simply stared at her.

"So in answer to your question, Professor," sighed the Wicce, closing both books, turning, and placing her feet one by one back into the bucket, "It would seem your lovely lady would like you to find the Ouroboros and, in so doing, the Resurrection Stone. Young Potter left it unattended, but it found its way home in a serpent eating its own tail." She looked at him levelly. "But the wisest words in that prophecy are the last. Heed them, Professor. Always speak the truth, and your love shall find a way."

In the dream, Servius was on his back and Amelie was once again astride him. But this time he seemed to be wearing some kind of armor, he was encased in metal, and though he could feel the heat of her through the barrier, there was no way he could physically make contact. She was laughing, and when he raised his hand to touch her, his hand was gloved in cold steel. And yet the heat…why did it seem to create a pleasant pressure? Why did it feel so good?

When he jerked awake, he was sweating. The dream lingered, competing with his panicky realisation that there were lights on – morning - the other kids in his dorm were up and about and somehow he'd missed the alarm. He moved to get up, and that was when his hand brushed a wet, sticky patch on his pyjama bottoms.

He pushed back the covers and stared at the dark, damp ring of proof of his own betrayal. He was supposed to hate Amelie, but apparently other parts of his body never got the message. In fact, those other parts were busy challenging his logic and preparing a very compelling argument to discard previous assumptions in favour of the evidence – all the evidence – that situations…sometimes changed.

Michael Tattinger stepped into the dorm to usher along the Slytherins. "Up! Up! You've got five minutes. Snape! Why are you still in bed?" He came up to Servius's bed and yanked back the covers, too quickly for Servius to react.

Tattinger clocked the circumstances in less than a second. He paused to smile knowingly at the boy. "Good dream? Here." He found a Slytherin dressing gown and threw it to Servius. "Hop into the shower, pronto. Put those in the laundry. Elves don't notice a thing. You there!" he glanced along the dorm. "That is NOT uniform!" And he moved off.

The dream threw Servius for six all day. Classes were a blur and spent sneaking slightly affronted glances at Amelie as if she somehow knew. She was oblivious and ignored him. But he noticed that she seemed cuter in her glasses, and that she tucked stray hair behind her ears. And that, all of a sudden, brainy girls were quite to his taste.

But it wasn't until free time later in the afternoon that things came to a head. William had Quidditch practice and so Servius decided to head off on a run alone, having missed his usual circuit with Oosthuizen in the morning. He zipped up his sweater to the top and pulled over the hood as he stepped outside – the day was grey, damp and claggy with late Autumn decomposition. He decided on the track alongside the Forbidden Forest, attracted to its knee-deep piles of rotting leaves, moss, ferns and toadstools. Spiderwebs glistened all day. Ravens perched in the upper branches and cawed, it seemed, for hours.

He set off at a steady pace. The air was so misty it was rare to see more than a few dozen meters ahead and the lake was eerily still; metallic, impenetrable. As Servius ran, his panting breaths sounded like roars and his footfalls thunderous, and, so absorbed, he at first didn't notice he was being shadowed from above. And it wasn't until Amelie called his name that he came to a slow stop and looked up.

She was on a broom: her own, one she'd brought with her from Germany. Slughorn had given her exemption to ride it in personal time, based on the assessment from Hooch that she was not only competent, but in fact Seeker material, born to ride.

"Where are you going?" asked Amelie, hovering slightly above him.

"What are you doing?" He was startled, firstly by having a silent companion, and then startled again at the fact his companion was her.

"I saw you head out. So I thought I'd keep you company." She lifted flying goggles onto her forehead and he saw she wore no glasses.

He stood facing her, catching his breath, distractedly admiring the lovely design and lines of her broom. "I don't need company. I like running by myself. Why aren't you at Quidditch practice?"

"I didn't sign up for Quidditch," she replied with a slight pout, and tilted her head. "Okay. I thought you might like to ride with me. We can go for a long ride."

"What? You mean out of school grounds?"

"Well, ja, I mean – who's going to know? And if we do get caught – then good, that will help us get expelled."

Servius scowled uncomfortably at this. But she had raised her brows at him, a test of his bravado. He shrugged. "Where do I sit?"

"Here. On this seat. But you'll have to hold on to me." With a gloved hand, she patted the small passenger saddle located behind her own.

"No helmets?"

"I don't need a helmet, Servius. You'll be fine." She lowered the broom to waist height and smiled at him, her toes dangling and scuffing the ground. "Come on, hop on, it will be fun."

Somewhat gingerly he swung onto the broom behind her. He was worried about falling off or getting sick, but most of all about holding onto Amelie. But she was quite relaxed and took his barely touching hands and brought them forward so that he was drawn into a tight hug. "Put on these goggles, put your feet in those stirrups and hold on – I won't go too fast."

And they were off, quickly elevating and she headed in the direction of the lake. A fog was rising and she lifted clear of it to find sunlight. Looking out, Servius could see for miles, the most he'd ever seen of the Highland's grand terrain. The distant peaks were now hidden by grey, forbidding clouds which he knew would hold snow.

Amelie dipped the broom to the left and he tightened his grip. When she laughed slightly he could feel it, a little judder of her torso. "Relax – I can't breathe," she shouted, the words whipping out of her mouth.

She had turned back towards the castle. It was his first view of it in its entirety and he was staggered by its resplendence, the complexity of architecture in the towers, bridges and buttressed walls. Just when he thought they might fly over the top of it, she turned again, in a south-easterly direction, headed for the Forbidden Forest.

Her control was incredible. She adeptly found the centre of gravity in each gentle turn so that they were upright again within moments. He intuitively recognised her skill, and while he couldn't bring himself to release the tension of his grip, he did start to relax his shoulders and allowed his own body to synchronise with the movement of the broom. The less he thought about falling off, the more he thought about his position relative to this girl who'd featured in his dream only that morning, and the feel of her now within his arms. Scorching blood rose to his neck and cheeks, almost enough to counteract the stinging cold he felt.

She lowered her broom and slowed a little as they approached the Forest. "At this time of year we might see something," she yelled as they travelled over the sections of leafless oaks, elms and birches. "Look for unicorns, thestrals – maybe even a Hippogriff!"

Hagrid's first-year classes had, so far, been rather tame. There had certainly been magical creatures to learn about, but nothing that had really gotten Servius' heart started. So he searched keenly through the tree-tops, not sure what a thestral was and unaware he wouldn't see one anyway. After perhaps five minutes of flying, Amelie spotted a small family group of unicorns which she pointed out excitedly, and then a group of red deer hinds, running away from their shadow.

And then they flew into a swarm that came from nowhere.

Thousands upon thousands of moths were rising into the air in a winding white funnel. Amelie and Servius had flown straight through the middle of it, and the bodies of moths were caught in their hair, on their goggles and snagged on their jackets. For several crazy seconds Servius almost released his grip to clear them from his face, and at the same time Amelie plummeted the broom towards the forest canopy, but she gained control and slowed, before turning the broom upwards and rising again.

"What is that?" Amelie shouted, turning back the way they'd come, the column of moths now visible again. Amelie directed the broom to circle around it while Servius stared in astonishment, never having seen anything like it. The gently rising funnel wound upwards from the ground like a tornado until, above them, the moths dissipated against the white, cloudy sky. Servius looked to where the funnel originated, and noticed a large structure beneath the trees, angular, dark and made from stone, a little like the Aztec temples he'd seen on television. The moths seemed to be flying out from there.

"What's that?" he asked. He hadn't known of any buildings within the Forest.

Amelie stared as well, lowering the broom to get a closer look. "I don't know," she said. "Mark it with your wand."

"What?"

"Take a location mark. With your wand. Don't you know how to do that?"

Anticipating his answer based on his puzzled silence, she withdrew her own wand, keeping the broom level with her left hand. "Get your wand and copy me. Point it at the…the thing, draw a little sort of tick, like that, and say Pinpoint."

Servius copied her exactly, and when he felt his wand offer a small vibration he knew he'd done it right.

"So wherever you are, next time you say Go to Pinpoint, the wand will direct you to it like a compass."

"Cool."

She was smiling at him, and he found himself smiling in return, then glanced back down when he felt the tips of his ears burning.

It was then his attention was drawn to movement beneath the trees. The moths had dwindled away, but on the forest floor, new creatures were assembling – large, dark shapes moving rapidly towards the stone structure from every direction.

Amelie watched with him, and Servius had time to ask, "What are they?" before something whizzed past them through the air, inches away.

"Did you see that?" Amelie asked, and then another thing zipped by with a faint whistle.

Below, the creatures had gathered around the structure. Servius was strongly reminded of horses, their bulk, their nervous movement, and yet the way they behaved wasn't quite right.

Suddenly, the air around them was alive with zipping, whizzing objects and something thunked sharply into the rubber sole of Servius's trainer. A second later, Amelie yelled, "Centaurs!" and jerked the broom so intensely, Servius felt himself lose balance.

"Hang on!" she cried and the broom lurched forward. Servius desperately clung to Amelie as they careened along the top of the forest, headed in the direction of the castle. He ducked his face down, their speed too fast for comfort, just willing the ride to be over. He couldn't believe what she'd said: it didn't matter how many insanely improbable things he'd been confronted with since coming to Hogwarts, his shock was renewed with each one, and the idea of actual, living centaurs – who, if Amelie's response was to be an indicator – needed to be treated with caution, rendered him dumbfounded enough that he almost didn't notice her broom swoop alarmingly as the castle came into view.

She hurtled over the top of the Quidditch pitch, causing the Slytherin team to pause and point, then u-turned back and down to the clock tower courtyard. With precision, she brought the broom to a halt and Servius tentatively relaxed his hold.

"You can get off now," she said, grinning at him. She was already swinging one leg over.

But Servius couldn't put his left foot down: it was blocked, and then he remembered his trainer had been hit. Balancing on his right, he lifted his foot and found an arrow-tip embedded into the rubber, it's sharp, stone broadhead masterfully shaped and fitted to the shaft. With a tug, he freed the arrow and said, "Check it out!"

Amelie came to his side and watched as he turned the arrow over. "They were using bows," he said. "Whatever that building was in the forest, they were defending it."

"The fletching," she murmured, running her fingers along the fine feathery edge. "Hippogriff, I'd say. Nice souvenir. Are you going to show your father?"

He glanced at her in surprise. "Why would I do that?"

"So he knows you were in Centaur territory. It's not allowed."

"Oh right," he muttered, imagining the reaction if he did as she suggested. "I'll think about it."

On the last day of All Hallows Week, a Sunday, the Hufflepuff Senior Quidditch team met the Ravenclaws before the entire school, and from his seat among the Slytherins in the emerald stands, Snape saw with his own eyes what McGonagall had meant about the reinvented badgers.

The Ravenclaws – his second team, and Charity's House – were utterly demolished. He watched open-mouthed as black and yellow players buzzed like hornets from every direction, dazzling in their speed and accuracy, never missing a bludger, never missing a goal, leaving the rigid Ravenclaws stumbling as their game-plan began to unravel within the opening minutes.

In their stands, the Hufflepuffs chanted an anthem that would start low then build into a crescendo, explode with a massive, terrifying thundering of feet on the wooden platforms, and then slowly start again. The only words were "Hufflepuff LOVE". They virtually silenced all the other supporters, most particularly the Ravenclaws, who began to huddle together miserably.

Deep in amongst the rather rabid looking badgers was Hentie Oosthuizen, her entire face painted yellow, a black and gold witchdoctors' head-dress crowing the remainder of her costume, which appeared to be that of a great, woolly, yellow and black bear, but which Snape imagined was meant to be a badger. She had a horn that she would blow intermittently, otherwise she chanted exuberantly, and bounced about with her neighbours whenever a point was scored. One of these neighbours, Snape noticed with puzzled interest, was Hagrid, who'd always been a stalwart Gryffindor man. The fond expression on his face, as Oosthuizen wrapped what she could of him in a frenzied hug, didn't need a lot of interpretation.

Snape's arm was gently nudged and he glanced over to find a mug of steaming coffee had been poured for him. He took it, the heat stinging his frozen fingers.

"Thank you," he said to Sinistra, sitting close beside him, who grinned at him as she screwed the cap back on her flask. "Is there something I should know about Hagrid and Oosthuizen?"

She raised her brows as she looked at the pair. "That's been brewing for years. They swear they're only friends, but they're so similar. When they're not hiking or doing absurd things with pumpkins, they're deep up the rear-end of some magical creature. She's as animal-mad as he is, and she brings back all sorts of exotica for him from Africa when she's been home."

"He's three times her size!"

Sinistra gave him a sideways look. "You don't always get to pick who you fall in love with."

Her soft, slightly rueful smile made his pulse quicken and he took a scalding sip of coffee for something to distract him.

"Do you think the weather will hold?" she enquired presently, with a look to the sky. "For the bonfires?"

"I predict drizzle."

"But you'll come anyway?"

The Slytherins had always done well at the Oidhche Draoidh bonfires, and he knew from Slughorn – now returned from holidays – that Servius had been enthusiastically involved in the team's construction plans. "Yes. I'm planning on being there," he said to Sinistra in a low voice and she glanced away, becoming instantly focussed on the game, and he frowned awkwardly, but neither moved where their bodies touched.

During the late afternoon, a drizzle did indeed embed itself, but undeterred, teams from each House began the heavy lifting of timber and wood into four enormous piles, bedecked with a straw man in House colours, on the lake edge ready for burning.

At the touch of dusk, the bonfires were lit deep in their centres where the wood and kindling pile were still dry, and the students implemented their chosen strategy for keeping the fires alight the longest. As the evening sank deeper into cold and dark, the staff and students gathered where the bonfire's heat could be felt, and lit fireworks, drank hot toddies and nibbled Ettie cake. Old Druid folk songs were clumsily voiced, McGonagall sometimes pausing the singers to teach them the words, and charms were cast into the fire for wishes or luck, inciting flames that blazed with rainbow colours.

Snape was keeping a close eye on Servius as he and Wait for William participated with the Slytherin team in feeding the fire. There was skill in the bonfire's framework, the type of wood employed, and stopping the structure from falling in on itself, particularly when the fires stuttered under persistent rain. Beside him he felt Sinistra shiver despite her heavy winter cloak and he showed her how to create a shield with her wand to ward off the rain. He felt a strong inclination to hug her close to him, something he would have done with Charity, but he didn't know how.

When McGonagall declared the Slytherins winners again (even though the other Houses complained she'd done so too soon), the spectators and teams willingly applauded and hurried back up to the castle, leaving the final remnants of the bonfires to burn themselves out.

As they all went through the heavy entrance doors in a group, chatting and laughing and dripping onto the flagstone floor, Snape glanced at Sinistra, thinking this was the moment they went their separate ways for the evening, and found her staring at him, a panicked frown between her brows.

"Severus," she said.

"What's the matter?"

"I, uh, I have…something…really important I need to discuss with you."

Snape's brows shot up. "About Servius?"

"Yes," she replied stiltedly, looking over his shoulder. He followed her gaze to see McGonagall observing discreetly. "Yes, about Servius."

"What is it?"

Sinistra swallowed hard. "Perhaps…in my office?"

"Well, uh, if you insist," he said, confused now, and as Sinistra had already turned on her heel and was walking briskly to the Astronomy Tower, he followed.

The trip up the many stairs to her office always worked up the lungs and heart, but the colour in Sinistra's cheeks seemed to glow with a different intensity as she admitted Snape into her office. It was cosy within, the fire having been on all evening, and only a few candle sconces flickered. She took off her cloak and she surprised him by suggesting he do the same. "It's soaking," she commented lightly, waving her wand at them both for a drying charm.

"Is this actually about Servius?" Snape asked, detecting all urgency seemed to have disappeared.

Sinistra draped the cloaks over the back of her visitor's chair. "He's amazing, don't you think?"

He frowned. "He has some points of merit…"

"Did he tell you he beat Amelie in a duel? Hellmann was devastated."

"I was aware he was permitted to stay in the club."

Sinistra was wearing the same soft V-neck sweater she'd worn the other day. He noticed her chest seemed to rise and fall rather profoundly and she took a step towards him.

"You're right - I haven't brought you here to talk about Servius," she said, holding his gaze, her dark eyes shining. Snape suddenly became alert to what was happening and competing impulses jumped up within him; but while they battled he was frozen, conscious of her approaching ever nearer, his fight or flight instincts awake to every detail of her.

"Severus…hear me out, just let me speak," she murmured, and he barely inclined his head. "I am…tired…of pretending…that we are nothing more than platonic. I mean, you know how I feel, how I've felt for years. And now – well now there's no reason…don't you think?"

The last words appealed for him to make the moment easier, relieve her of the excruciating awkwardness she felt. He was turning over her words in his head. Had he been pretending? He knew she'd entered his inner sanctum, he knew he'd lightly flirted with her once or twice, and he'd been distantly aware of signals…but he didn't think he'd actually cleared the decks emotionally and given her centre stage. It was Charity that still held that, he was still hopelessly in love with Charity.

She read his hesitation, very accurately as it turned out. "I'm not trying to take her place," said Sinistra, standing before him now. "I know others have your heart…and I accept that…but we're not getting any younger and…Severus, I'm still alive!"

Snape looked down at her and saw the heat in her eyes. "It's been eight years," she said in almost a whisper. "She wouldn't expect you to…she'd want you to be happy."

"It doesn't feel like eight years," he said, the dryness in his mouth making the words gruff. "I feel it like it was yesterday."

"That's because of the memories," she said. "But they are still only that. And nothing can take them from you."

And then she leaned in and kissed him gently on the mouth. Snape closed his eyes and for a moment all he knew in the world was her lips – soft, sweet and lingering. Vaguely he was aware of her arms coming up around his neck, her body pressing against him, and when he heard a faint groan emanate from his own throat, his head began to spin.

Her kissing became more insistent, and with blood pounding in his ears, he matched it, his body responding while his brain scrambled to catch up. She uttered a slightly delirious moan and tangled her fingers in his damp hair and unexpectedly, desire flared, like one of the charms in the fire, setting every nerve alight…and lust engulfed him.

His arms came around her and crushed her to him and she gasped, and he could feel her lithe, electrified body beneath his hands, her leg lifting to encircle his thigh, bringing her pelvis closer to his. He slipped his hands up beneath the jumper she wore - flimsy, he realised, no wonder she'd been cold - and he felt her smooth skin, so tender so warm, and then slid upwards to find her breasts, still captive in her lacy bra, but it was enough for her to issue another small moan.

She broke away in a frantic hurry to wrench off her top and he watched the flurry of movement as if in a trance, barely time to register before she'd thrown herself back up against him and sought out his mouth again. It had been enough to give oxygen to tiny rational voices in his head that clamoured for him to stop, but as his fingers traced their way up the bare skin of her back, lust blinded him once more.

Even Potion Masters are confounded by bra clasps in the heat of passion, and Sinistra nimbly helped him remove this last item so that soon he could take both full breasts in his hands and indulge in their luscious pliancy, her nipples hard beneath his touch. He bent his head to taste them and she arched back a little. "Ohhh, Severus," she breathed.

That did it. Her voice; his trance was popped like a bubble. Dreadful reality cracked the dam wall and crashed into his mind, and he stopped what he was doing, stopped dramatically and silently, and then taking her upper arms in either hand he gently eased her back from him.

"What?" she muttered, realising the wonderful, headlong train she'd just been riding seemed to have come abruptly derailed. "What's going on?"

He bent to find her discarded top which he passed to her with his eyes averted. "I'm so sorry, Aurora," he said. "I – I lost control."

"No, no wait, you don't -,"

Her eyes wide with dismay, she covered herself anyway, having the wherewithal to realise that the man now standing in her office was not the same one as ten seconds earlier.

"I am sorry if I took advantage -," he murmured, now very upright and straight, but slightly turned from her.

"You don't need to apologise," she finished lamely. "We're all grown-ups here."

He waited one long moment, then stiffly turned to her door. "I'll see myself out."

"Good night Severus," she said, voice catching, and the door gently clicked shut behind him.

The foyer of the Ministry of Magic had, like Malfoy Manor, enjoyed a makeover since Snape had last seen it. Post war, the determined Shacklebolt insisted on a mood of lightness, hope, unity and fortitude, ensuring all décor suitably reflected this, and every detail depicting pureblood supremacy was expunged. A Kew Gardens-like conservatory had been erected, light and heat supplied and controlled with magic, certainly enough that the exceptional collection of botanical species – both otherworldly and prosaic – knew no different from a life in the wild, and grew happily and profusely.

Snape noticed all this as he crossed the foyer that morning, perfectly on time for his meeting with Candace Peacock. He registered his wand, collected his visitor identification, and then took his place in the queue of Ministry personnel shuffling their way through the gate on their way to start work. Had he adopted the eyes-down, pre-work attitude of his bureaucratic companions, Snape might not have noticed the back of the head of the man in front of him: a memorable shock of irrepressible black hair that would not stay flat.

Potter.

He cleared his throat and fought down a smile. "Late again, Potter?" he said in his deepest, most scathing teacher voice, and was instantly rewarded with an alarmed, bespectacled pair of green eyes.

Recognition was immediate, and Potter smiled widely. "Professor Snape! What are you doing here?"

"Fairly obviously, I would have thought: a meeting. What are you doing here?"

Potter laughed a little drily. "I ask myself that every day. How are you?"

"Much of a muchness. Buffeted but upright. And you?"

They passed together through the gate bottleneck and around them workers and visitors marched towards the lifts and various points of business. Potter stopped, however, near a pretty, tinkling fountain, to extend his hand to Snape, who shook it.

"Okay," said Potter, poorly concealing a deep sigh in the word. "I'm okay."

Snape scanned the face he knew so well. Deep shadows beneath the eyes were not obscured by the frame of glasses, a weariness seemed to weigh heavily on him. Potter's suit was full of creases and his tie was slightly askew.

"Management can be hard," said Snape, dispensing with pleasantries. He knew Potter too well for small talk, and didn't do it well anyway.

Potter faltered a second, then sensed an opening that didn't need much encouragement. "It's partly the job and…partly, if I'm honest, having kids is just…can I be honest?"

"Uh…by all means -,"

"I haven't slept properly in weeks. Actually, months. I think I'm going slightly barmy. Albus is…he has some issues and…it's so much harder with two. I mean, James still has needs."

"Oh," said Snape.

Potter smiled again, trying to inject some levity but it just looked a bit crazed. "Poor Ginny!" he laughed grimly. "She's coping, I mean she really is but Albus isn't a good feeder, see, so Ginny has…you know…" Potter lifted his hand to where a breast would otherwise be. "They really hurt."

Snape's eyes widened a little, trying hard not to remember a thirteen-year-old Ginny Weasely in her Quidditch uniform.

"And that's making Ginny mad a lot, and you know, you go home from a day in the Auror office, which, as I expect you'll know, isn't a barrel of laughs, and walk into…like I said, I'm being honest…well it's chaos."

"I see..."

Potter paused, seeming to register Snape's polite deference, and laughed again. "No, I expect you don't see at all, I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking -,"

"It's quite alright…"

"It's weird, isn't it," said Potter, shaking his head in mild disbelief. "It's like…I dunno…my shrink says I'm always looking for father figures."

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't worry, she's not a Muggle shrink. But…I have talked about you."

Snape frowned.

"It's okay, she says that I had a displaced desire to please you and that when Dumbledore… died it was my terror of abandonment again that made me react so strongly. According to her, it was your approval that I sought more than anyone! Huh! I didn't know that."

Snape stared at him. Then he glanced quickly at the oblivious people around them and said, "Do you think this is something that should be discussed here?"

Potter looked about him as well, but it wasn't with surprise to find himself in the lift lobby of the Ministry, it was with a tight-lipped dispiritedness. "It's not like I was planning on talking to you, Professor." He grinned, but it was forced. "There you go again, making me feel like an idiot."

"I'm not trying to -,"

"It's okay, I don't know what I'm saying half the time, it's the tiredness."

"That I can understand. Have you got something you can give the children?"

Potter frowned quizzically. "What do you mean?"

"Some Dreamless Sleep. Why don't you give them some of that?"

Potter's brows shot up. "Because they're little. You can't give them potions."

It was Snape's turn to feel slightly humiliated. "Oh. Ah -."

"How is…sorry, I've forgotten his name -."

"Servius."

"Yeah, Servius. Nice kid. Easier when they're eleven I expect."

Snape gave him a dead stare. "Potter, I would have thought you above anyone would know that being eleven doesn't make you easier."

Potter chuckled at that. "Seriously? You expect eleven-year-old boys to behave in a place like Hogwarts? Maybe in Hufflepuff..."

"Don't underestimate Hufflepuff," muttered Snape, but he was smiling.

Potter held his gaze for a moment, something about his smile was wistful, and then he said, "Hey, I better go, I'll be late -,"

Snape nodded, "I as well. But there is one thing I want to ask you before you go."

Potter cocked his head slightly, puzzled.

"The Resurrection Stone."

Potter's eyes seemed to go through several lens changes. They transitioned from vague, polite interest into focussed and wary. "What about it?"

"I need to know where it is."

"I don't know anything about it."

Snape's eyes narrowed and zeroed in on him. "Yes you do."

"No. No I don't. I don't know anything about it."

"You're a hopeless liar, Potter. All Gryffindors are."

And suddenly, they were back in the dungeon classroom. All the castles-in-the-clouds of mature acceptance and forgiveness they had built up over the years dissipated like so much fog under the sun. Snape felt like he'd just shed fifteen years and Potter looked about the same.

"Are you going to use Legilimens on me, sir? Because otherwise I'm due at work."

"How did Dumbledore give it to you?"

The second it took for Potter to think about the snitch was enough for Snape. "Did you put it back? Is it somewhere in the Head's Office? I know you are addled by offspring but try and think."

Potter glanced around him. Some employees getting into the lifts were taking a cursory interest, but for the most part they were now alone.

"What do you want with the Resurrection Stone, sir? Hoping to bring back the old gang?"

Potter's chin lifted defiantly, just the way it used to, and taken aback by the question, Snape stared. He'd almost missed this sparring, Potter had almost been a worthy opponent.

He straightened. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"There's a reason snakes don't sleep straight."

At this, a chuckle rumbled up from a dusty old place in Snape. "Ha. That's a good one. If you must know, and – given this is you we are talking about so you almost certainly must - I have no personal interest in the Stone at all, I'm not trying to bring anyone back, I am…I am attempting to help someone go home. The Stone has connections to something in a prophecy. If I can find it, I can figure it out."

Potter studied his face, and Snape knew that he was somewhat frustrated by the sincerity he found there. He sighed and his shoulders slumped. They didn't have far to go. "Sounds just like the sort of thing that would be happening at Hogwarts."

"And your chum Neville Longbottom claims to have lost something. Something he thinks Professor Trelawney might know the whereabouts of -,"

Snape paused, because Potter's expression became instantly alarmed. "Ne-Neville?"

"I don't know many other Neville's."

Potter was actually chewing his bottom lip. "Did you tell him about the Resurrection Stone?" Snape asked him, voice dropping low. "Did you swap secrets over your butterbeers? What could a liability like Longbottom want with a stone like that?"

"If he found it, he'd bring it straight to me," Potter answered, eyes wide. "To keep it would be a criminal act. He couldn't do that."

"Maybe he thinks its finders' keepers. As it happens, the Stone has been returned to its rightful place. Did you do that, or someone else? Where did you put it, Potter?"

"To it's rightful place?" echoed Potter and Snape's brow arched.

"So you didn't do that, then. Someone found it from wherever you left it and returned it. And we know that wasn't Longbottom. Or Trelawney." He drew a deep breath. "How long have you got, because there's around fifteen staff at Hogwarts and I know I don't have all day."

At that moment there was a clanging of lift doors being opened and the sound of heels clipping on tile coming briskly towards them. Both Snape and Potter looked over as Candace Peacock approached, her hand extended.

"Professor, so sorry to keep you waiting, lovely to see you again. Morning Harry!"

"Morning Candace," replied Potter, his face drained. "I've just been catching up. I'll leave you to your meeting, shall I?"

"Merlin Harry, you might like to get yourself a strong coffee!" remarked Peacock. "You look like you've had a rough night."

Potter smiled wanly, and then with a last, penetrating glance at Snape, he wandered off to the lifts.

Peacock then turned her wide smile to Snape. As always, she was smartly dressed in MoM uniform and her hair was pulled into a controlled knot. If she carried her wand with her, Snape had no idea where it would be. "How is Servius?" she enquired.

"Physically well. The school life is a bit of an adjustment for him."

"I expect that takes a few months for all first-year Muggle-raised. Shall we take a stroll through the Conservatory? It's lovely and warm in there."

Snape was agreeable and Peacock led them through to the glass and steel doors which opened into a magnificent heated structure of glass panes mosaiced together like a dome. Narrow, tiled paths meandered through vibrant, profuse beds of shrubs, trees and potted plants of every possible description, so dense it was necessary to occasionally move fronds and leaves aside that had fallen across the path. Butterflies, bees and tiny jewel-like birds flitted about, and once or twice, Snape's eye caught a second of scuttling in the undergrowth, but he never ascertained the owner.

"Was it about Servius that you wanted to see me?" asked Peacock as they strolled.

"No, his friend in fact. But just before we move on, I take it there's been no change of plans regarding the Burbage's Christmas arrangements? Servius has mentioned several times a wish to go home, and they neglected to send him anything for his birthday."

Peacock looked a little dismayed. "I haven't heard anything new, Professor. I'll make enquiries. I do know the Burbage's had planned on doing some travelling once Servius started school…it's possible they didn't know how to reach him from wherever they were."

"It might bring him some comfort to know he wasn't forgotten entirely."

"Did you forget his birthday?" Peacock asked quietly.

"I did," Snape admitted. "I only realised thanks to his friend, William Huan, about whom I've come to see you."

"William Huan?" repeated Peacock, clearly browsing her mental files. "I don't think I know a William…"

"I promised a colleague at Hogwarts I'd bring it to the Ministry. Huan reports that his father is a Muggle geneticist who has earned a position on the Human Genome Project, and has apparently flown to America with his discovery."

"Which is?"

"As Charity coins it, the M-Chromosome. More commonly known as the Magic gene."

Peacock paused to stare at Snape. "Huan? Did you say Huan? Chinese?"

Snape nodded drawing his brows together.

"It couldn't be," she muttered, staring at nothing, gathering information in her head. "Dr Ditton had an assistant, Tao Huan – since Dr Ditton retired -,"

"The man in the baseball cap," murmured Snape, recalling the Asian individual outside Holly's school who'd tried to grab the little girl, the man he'd obliviated.

Peacock shook her head slightly. "I – I don't know for sure, I mean, Huan is a common Chinese name."

"He nicknamed the boy Pinocchio – he wanted to bring the boy to life. If the child is to be believed, Huan has somehow genetically…created, manufactured him -,"

"Engineered," said Peacock shortly. "Then Huan is ahead of his time. The Muggles have been artificially impregnating animals and mothers for years. But it's still the luck of nature's draw what offspring you get -,"

Snape shook his head. "William said that his father wanted a boy. A magic boy."

"Then he'd somehow altered the genes before or during the embryonic stage…" She faltered and then suddenly seemed to come up for air. "If any of this is true, Professor Snape. It seems rather far-fetched don't you think?"

Snape considered her for a minute then cleared his throat. "Indeed. If I had the technology to engineer a child, I'm not sure I'd draw up blueprints for William Huan."

Peacock laughed. "Who's Pinocchio?"

"A Muggle fairy-tale," said Snape dismissively. "Ironically, Pinocchio's nose grows long if he lies. Shall I check Master Huan's?"

"That might be an idea, Professor. We all know what the imaginations of eleven-year-olds can be like. Why don't you leave this with me and I'll run a background check on Tao Huan, see what he's been up to since Dr Ditton retired." She gave a resigned smile and sighed. "I'll never be able to close that file, will I?"